


Chocolate Volcanoes and Other Such Nonsense

by Ismene_Jane



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Chicago, Human Castiel, I think that's it? - Freeform, M/M, Tumblr Prompt, bar setting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-15
Updated: 2015-04-15
Packaged: 2018-03-23 03:22:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3752614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ismene_Jane/pseuds/Ismene_Jane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean loves Sundays for their calm, but sometimes unaccepted disturbances can be welcome.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chocolate Volcanoes and Other Such Nonsense

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Pegasus_Eridana](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pegasus_Eridana/gifts).



> This came from a tumblr prompt suggested to me by Pegasus_Eridana. I now cannot find said tumblr prompt, of course, but the gist of it was:  
> "You walked into my bar asking for a chocolate volcano and I don't know what that is but I'm too scared of you to ask."
> 
> This is what happened. 
> 
> ...it also kind of turned into an Ode to Chicago. Meh. 
> 
> Thanks to my betas Pegasus_Eridana and LennaNightrunner for the edits!!!

Dean was having a good day. A _very_ good day. First, he’d found out that Sammy got into law school. But not just any law school; the law school at the University of Chicago, which was conveniently located a forty-five minute bus ride from where Dean currently lived. And worked.

He had come into said workplace to find that all of the orders had come on time and that no one had any issues to discuss with the manager of the Grafton Pub. Who he just so happened to be. He’d walked over to work from his apartment a few blocks south on Lincoln Avenue today because, although it was March in Chicago, it was unseasonably warm. He even got to wear his leather jacket instead of his usual parka, which was unheard of at this time of year. He’d passed Half Acre and gotten to smell the beer being made, which always put him in a good mood, and was reminded that ten-cent wing night at the Wild Goose was happening tomorrow. He always conveniently forgot that little fact just so he could remind himself the day before.

But the icing on all of this cake was that if tomorrow was ten-cent wing night at Wild Goose, it meant that today was Sunday. Sundays were Dean’s favorite day to work because Sunday was Irish seisiún day. From five to eight PM there were a handful of Irish musicians playing while he tended bar, stocked, and served.

Not that Dean didn’t love Jug Band Mondays or even Folk Club Tuesdays, but he really _loved_ the Irish music. Loved how Rock n’ Roll it all was. How it just made smiling easier. Plus, the people who came into the Grafton on Sundays were just nicer. Known fact.

Hell, even _Ellen_ was uncharacteristically warm on Sundays, and that was a friggin’ miracle.

“I see you smiling, Ellen,” said Dean as he wiped out a Guinness glass. “Might as well go dance for a bit.”

It was seven-thirty and the bar was strangely empty. Just a few booths full of people listening to the end of the seisiún and a couple at the end of the bar closest to the door. Probably because this was the weekend after the crazy St. Patty’s Day festivities. When the Chicago River ran green and people went dingo-ate-my-baby crazy. Thank God his bar was in Lincoln Square and not Wrigleyville, so Dean didn’t have to deal with too many drunken idiots on Let’s-Pretend-We’re-Irish-And-Get-Hammered-Day. But this Sunday was calm and quiet, and that’s just how Dean liked his Sundays.

Dean and Ellen were cleaning the bar up after the early-dinner Sunday rush and were letting the waitresses take care of the few covers they still had.

Ellen scoffed at Dean’s comment, but couldn’t quite hide the happiness in her eyes. “Can it, Winchester,” she said, snarkily, “I don’t need any of your lip and you can’t prove my smilin’ anyhow.”

“I’m gonna get a picture one of these days,” said Dean, placing the glass behind the bar and kissing Ellen on the cheek. “You can’t hide it forever.”

Ellen cupped Dean’s cheek with an affectionate look on her face, though she’d deny it later.

“You boys,” she said. “Don’t know why I ever took you in.”

Dean rolled his eyes. They’d had this back and forth a thousand times and it was comforting, more than anything else. His adopted mother loved him as fiercely as she loved her own blood.

“‘Cause we were orphans, Ma, and you secretly have a heart that’s as easy to melt as anything.”

“Nah,” Ellen responded, in her practiced way. “Just loved your father secretly all that time. He died and I had to take y’all in.” She sighed, long-suffering. “Don’t know how I live without him.”

“I’m gonna tell Bobby you said so,” Dean replied, like he always did. “You holding a candle for Dad an’ all. Don’t think your husband would take too kindly.”

Ellen put on her mock-horrified expression. Dean smiled.

“You wouldn’t dare!” she said, dramatically.

“No ma’am, I would not.” Dean grinned from ear to ear, knowing what would be coming out of Ellen’s mouth next.

“And that’s why you’re my favorite.” she said, ruffling his hair.

Dean opened his mouth to quip back that he wouldn’t tell Sam or Jo that little tidbit, either, when the door opened with more force than usual to reveal one of the strangest sights he’d seen in his short twenty-six years of life.

The man was beautiful, to start with. Dean had had enough time to get over his hang-ups with bisexuality left over from his (frankly) homophobic father in his ten years with Ellen and Bobby to recognize that. (He remembered the first time he’d dated a guy and Bobby had walked in on them making out in the kitchen. Bobby had grunted and said that he should keep his sexin’ in his room, adult or no adult and that had very much been that.)

 _This guy_ , though. He had chiseled features, too-blue eyes, and sex-god hair. But Dean couldn’t tell if the hair was a product of the day or just perpetually on end. The guy was also wearing a rumpled suit under a beige trench coat. His blue tie was askew (and who the fuck wears a suit to a bar on Sunday, anyway?) and Dean had to keep his eyes from bugging out when he saw that the guy wasn’t wearing any shoes.

He would have told the guy no shoes, no service, but the guy looked like he might blow a gasket if anyone talked to him. His eyes were wild and he looked like he’d survived an apocalypse or a fall from Grace. There were tear tracks down his face and a heavy-set determination in his jaw. He stumbled the fifteen feet down the length of the bar, away from the musicians who were all gaping at this caveman-esque apparition in their midst.

He chose a seat near the end of the bar, where there wasn’t anyone sitting within four chairs of him and stared at his hands. Then he spoke.

“Chocolate volcano,” he rumbled in a voice that sounded like gravel and sandpaper having a knife-and-chain fight and then stared at his hands, where they were shaking on the bar.

Dean gaped like a fish for a few seconds while he tried to figure out if that was a statement or a question before the handsome stranger followed it up with a heavy sigh, a closing of eyes and a heartfelt,

“Please.”

Ellen barked out a laugh and clapped Dean on the shoulder. “This one’s all yours, Son,” she said as she left the bar, chuckling.

Dean was torn. On the one hand, he had no idea what a chocolate volcano even _was_. But on the other hand he was so scared of the (very possibly _insane_ ) stranger sitting in front of him that he didn’t know how to ask.

“Uh…” he tried, desperately wracking his brain for when he learned what a chocolate volcano was when he attended bartending school at twenty-one. “Chocolate volcano, huh?”

“Oh for—” the gorgeous stranger said before banging his hands on the bar and seething, “As if this day could get any _worse_.”

Dean was just starting to think he might have to call the cops on the clearly unhinged guy when said guy pulled on his own hair as hard as he could, clamped his eyes shut so tightly he looked as if he might push them back into his brain, and then suddenly released all the tension in his limbs with a full-body shudder and accompanying gusty sigh.

Dean wasn’t proud of the fact that it turned him on, but there he was. Standing like an idiot with his hands outstretched in a placating manner, getting all fucking tingly because a deranged man in a suit fucking _sighed_ at him.

Thank _God_ Sammy wasn’t there to see it.

Dean was just about to get his brain out of the gutter and his voice working when the stranger placed his hands on the bar, raised his head, and turned those blue eyes onto his own.

Oh God. His _eyes_. They were like the ocean. Like the sky. Like… like…

“My apologies,” the stranger interrupted Dean’s thoughts with that come-fuck-me voice of his. “I have had a… _trying_ day. I promise I am of sound mind and simply need a drink.” Dean tried to interrupt him to protest that he surely didn’t think he was crazy, no! But the stranger held up a hand and continued.

“I do not drink regularly and when I do I am often with my brother who has a… fondness for sweets that borders on obsession. Therefore, we always have lemon drops or chocolate volcanoes or any other plethora of sugary concoctions that I’m sure a barkeep like yourself finds appalling. But chocolate volcanoes are my favorite. I am not sure I am equipped for one more… disappointment, today.”

“Well… sir—” Dean began.

“Castiel. Shurley.” The stranger, Cas-tee… Cas-tee-el? Oh, whatever, Cas, said.

“Okay, Cas,” said Dean, slapping on his best Winchester-grin. “Here’s the deal. I’m not sure how to make you a chocolate volcano but I _can_ make you the best white Russian in the city, and I’m pretty sure it won’t disappoint.”

Castiel regarded him for a moment, but Dean held his ground, waiting for an approval.

He got it in the form of Cas Shurley seeming to take in his appearance for the first time. Those true-blue eyes grew wide as they fully connected with Dean’s own. The two stared at each other for what should have been an uncomfortable amount of time but was strangely… pleasant. Then Cas smiled and Dean almost gasped like a goddamned girl with how beautiful the other man was when his face lit up.

“Very well, Mr…” Cas said, still smiling.

“Winchester. Dean Winchester. But you can call me Dean.”

“Well then. Hello, Dean. It’s nice to meet you. And I would very much like to try your… what was it? Russian?”

“White Russian. And nice to meet you, too, Cas. Coming right up.” He turned away from that intense gaze and found that his palms were a little sweaty. His hands a little trembly. What the Hell? He hadn’t been this shaky since he ran into Dr. Sexy last summer at Lolla.

“I do apologize, again, Dean.” Cas said, shaking him out of his reverie. “It’s been a bad day.”

“Maybe you want a burger, then. To go with your cocktail,” Dean blurted out, already putting in the order, then turning back to finish Cas’ drink. Cas raised an eyebrow, amusement written all over his face. Dean ducked his head.

“We have really great burgers,” Dean babbled, not really able to stop for some reason. “On pretzel buns. And sharp white-cheddar cheese. And our fries! Our fries are great. But it’s the buns that make it. People love our…buns…” He looked up and blushed beet red when he saw the smirk on Cas’ face. “I mean…”

“I’m sure they do,” Cas said, voice pitched even lower than before. Dean’s mouth gaped open again at the blatant come-on.

“Uh… your drink!” he said, frantically brandishing the creamy concoction as a shield. “It’s… uh… ready.” He plunked it down in front of Cas and smiled.

Cas picked it up and regarded it with interest.

“What’s in it?”

“Not tellin’. Not ‘til you try it.”

Cas cautiously took a sip and his eyes fluttered shut. He let out a groan of ecstasy that certainly wasn’t helping Dean’s inappropriate arousal any, and quickly knocked back half of the drink.

“I like that,” he said when he’d caught a breath. “Very much.”

“It’s… uh… vodka and Kahlua and cream. My secret is that I use half and half where most places just use milk.” Dean couldn’t stop staring at Cas’s mouth, where there was just a little bit of the drink clinging to his top lip. Dean desperately wanted to lick it off and couldn’t seem to get a damn grip.

“It’s wonderful,” Cas said, smiling.

“Good. Just wait ‘til you have the burger. And it’s on the house! Of course. Seeing as you probably don’t have any money on you.” Dean smiled weakly again, trying not to be awkward and knowing that he was failing, miserably.

Castiel cocked his head in a way reminiscent to a puppy. Great.

“Not that I don’t appreciate the favor, but I assure you I have money,” he said, sounding curious and vaguely offended. “What makes you think I don’t?”

“Uh, dude, your shoes?” Dean said, gesturing to where Cas’ feet surely were underneath the bar. “Weren’t you mugged? Isn’t that why you had a bad day?”

“Ah,” Cas smiled ruefully. “No. Those I gave away freely. To a homeless man down the street. My truly horrific day is completely unrelated.”

“You—you _gave_ your shoes away?” Dean sputtered.

“Yes. To the homeless man. Down the street.” Cas repeated, slowly, with twinkling eyes.

“Oh. Well. That’s uh… that’s… I just didn’t think people did that in real life.” Dean self-consciously ran his hand through his hair, thinking he probably sounded like an asshole.

“Seemed like the right thing to do, after what I just witnessed of peoples’ characters this afternoon.”

Cas slumped in his seat a little and Dean had the disconcerting desire to sweep the other man up into his arms and hold him tight.

Cas laughed, delighted, and Dean realized with not a little bit of panic that he’d said that out loud.

“Cas—”

“I’d like that. Sometime. But perhaps you’ll allow me to tell you about my day and you could tell me a bit more about yourself, Mr. Dean Winchester, while I eat your cheeseburger that rests on magical buns.”

Dean huffed out a laugh and rubbed the back of his neck, embarrassed.

“Sounds good to me. And maybe sometime you’d like to get a drink somewhere besides the bar I partially own?”

“Yes,” Cas said softly. “I’d like that very much.”

“A chocolate volcano, maybe?”

Cas barked out a laugh. Dean grinned.

“If you like,” he said, blue eyes shining. “Anything you like.”

Dean got all tingly and warm and noticed that the music had just stopped. The seisiún was over and he had things to do. He jerked a thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the band.

“I’ve gotta—” he started, before Cas cut him off.

“Go,” he said, making a shooing motion. “And make me another one of these Russians on your way back. I’ll be here.”

“ _White_ Russian, Cas,” he responded, flirtatiously.

As he walked to the end of the bar to confer with the musicians about the seisiún and payment and such, he could feel Cas’ eyes on his back. He shivered with the anticipation of spending more time with someone who already felt impossibly important.

The weirdo who gave away his shoes to all and sundry, who drank chocolate volcanoes of all things. The world was a strange place.

 But one thing was certain: Dean _loved_ Sundays.

**Author's Note:**

> Lemme know what you think!
> 
> Thanks so much for reading!!


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